A Game for Dreamers and Fools
by springfieldbluebird
Summary: Watson begins putting together the pieces of Holmes' past in London. A showdown with Moriarty. Finally complete with the addition of Chapter 12!
1. Chapter 1

Standard Disclaimer: Nothing in here belongs to me, not even Angus, the Phrenology bust. All characters are properties of their owners. I just borrow them for fun.

Author's Note: This is something I've whipped up tonight. I hope it's error free! I edited a lot! I think there might be more to this than a one shot, so we'll call this the first chapter.

Watson was out shopping and Holmes was bored. Bored. Bored. And slightly hungry. But mostly bored. _I should have gone with Watson_, he thought. Now he was stuck here thinking and, while that was mostly a welcome prospect—thinking without interruption—, now it was not so appealing. There were things that clamored for his attention: the box of files she'd moved into the living room, the police scanner (which was always profitable in garnering information about new cases), the internet (also just as profitable in the case department) and the violin. He chose the violin. Watson would be pleased that he was indulging himself in music, and it did help him to think sometimes.

He settled in by the window and began to play a melody of his own composition. As he did, he glanced over at Angus. "What're **you** looking at?" He asked, pausing and then reaching over to pick up his old companion. "You're not the best audience for my music." He placed Angus on the end table next to him, then sat back a moment, thinking of what he'd said to Watson yesterday about being glad she was there to talk to. How he needed her to discuss things with. Opening up to her had been so easy. Dangerously easy. No, it wasn't that exactly. He cradled his violin in his lap as he searched for the right words.

"It felt normal." He said out loud in the empty house. He glanced at Angus who merely stared ahead. "Why did it feel so normal?" He was not used to revealing anything about himself to anyone. In fact, he had a watch and "appear to listen" mode that got him through rehab, and he'd never had to open up to anyone. He had played that part well. It had made rehab tougher than it had to be, or at least that's what all the psychiatrists were nattering on about all the time. They were always urging him to talk about his past, how he felt about things, but after he'd gotten over the physical withdrawal, he'd not felt he needed all that tripe about "feelings" and "emotional baggage."

The mental aspect of this whole "addict" thing was challenging, however. He played a note from his instrument, then realized that he must have bumped the peg. The note was not quite flat, but flatter than usual. He fixed it by ear, and then he was idle once more. The mental part of this addiction thing . . . that was the "rub." It should be quite easy, he thought to himself. It wasn't that he was arrogant about his mental abilities, but he knew that he should be able to tackle any problem with his mind and fix it. It was elementary.

But, no, it wasn't that easy, and that frustrated him. Even now, with Watson gone, he could feel the itch in the back of his mind worse than ever. Things were boring. There was no case. No way to be useful. When he'd been high, those things hadn't bothered him at all. The drugs dulled his senses to a level that was almost tolerable. With them, he never would have noticed the ticking clock that was one minute and thirty-seven seconds slower than the clocks in Watson's room, the dripping of the water faucet in the kitchen, the itch behind his left shoulder blade, the floral perfume that Watson had worn that day and the way the neighbor always came out on his front porch to check the mail between 1:18 and 1:42 every afternoon. These were just a mere sample of the observations that seemed to assault him unless he was distracted. Drugs had been a distraction.

Work was a distraction as well. Being on a case seemed to dull that maddening craving. Being around Watson was also a welcome distraction. He began to ponder the thought of her in his mind. She was enough to distract anyone, he had to admit. With her lithe figure, hair like a wave of black silk and dark, mysterious eyes that seemed to know his every move, he could understand the effect she would have on most men. Of course he had noticed the appreciative glances of the officers in the precinct. He didn't like them, not one bit, but he didn't blame them either. For him, however, the physical beauty was secondary. Her mind, her personality, her strength . . . she was on the top of the list of the people he most admired. She was one of the few people that could draw him from the depths of melancholy.

"She's become . . . important." He glanced back over at Angus, focusing his eyes on the calm, Buddha- like countenance. "I can't explain it."

He placed the violin back in its case, knowing he was done for now, and settled back in the chair, thinking. What was this quality that Watson possessed? Having never come up against it in anyone, he could not define it. It puzzled him, and in a way, that was bad. He would not, **could not**, let this go. The way she seemed to have a steadying influence on him seemed mystical.

When she wasn't around, the craving he had for her was almost painful. "Is it…?" _Love?_ He glanced at Angus and then let out a heavy sigh. Certainly not. He remembered the past…his days at boarding school. It hadn't taken long for him to realize that love was a game played by fools. He wanted no part of it.

Not that he didn't appreciate the female form, but thus far in life, his sexual exploits were only that-just physical. He had never wanted the entanglements that came from a…relationship. He frowned again as he thought of the distasteful word. Relationships were messy, painful and best left alone. Angus's placid half-smile seemed inscrutable.

And she. Watson. What would she ever see in him? He actually colored a bit from the thought. He was just an addict. Weak. A deep frown creased his face, then he closed his eyes. "A game for dreamers and fools," he whispered to Angus. The bust seemed to go on enigmatically smiling, as if he knew a secret that Sherlock didn't yet understand.

Author's note: If you like it, please drop me a line and I'll continue it. :)


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two:

It was afternoon and Holmes was sitting in the red leather chair. Yellow fall sunlight poured in through the windows to pool on the floor and he blinked his eyes until he could see through the dazzle. It was strange, not remembering how he'd gotten into the living room, but it sometimes happened when he lost track of time. But he wasn't working, just sitting. Alone. All of a sudden, he stood up, worry creeping into his bones as he glanced around. "Joan?" He called out.

There was no answer. He walked into the kitchen, then back out into the hallway. She was nowhere to be found. Her running shoes were lined up near the door. Her coat was on the hook. "Joan?" He asked more softly. With horror, he noticed a lone balloon floating at the top of the steps. Taking the stairs two at a time, he went immediately to her bedroom. It was empty, except for what seemed like hundreds of balloons bobbing at different levels in the room. They all said "Your move!" His heart stopped beating. Adam. How? He beat his way through the floating blobs of color, searching for her. She was nowhere to be found. He was paralyzed with fear at the thought of finding her hurt . . . or worse.

He turned around in shock. "No, no, no, no." He growled, his hands pounding aside the balloons. He escaped their snarled strings and was in the hallway, facing his door. A black envelope taped at eye level. He snatched it off. Finding gloves and preserving fingerprints ran through his mind, but it was **Joan** and he couldn't afford to lose so much time. He ripped it open.

In sliver pen on black paper, it read:

Holmes—

Your break's over.

Play the game.

M.

The paper fell from nerveless fingers. He knew there wouldn't be any clues to glean from it. Not if it came from . . . **HIM**. Fear and frustration swept through his body and he was paralyzed. He'd caused this himself. Joan was in danger from **HIM**, if not dead already, and it was all his fault. "NO!" He turned and punched a fist into the wall, tears of rage forming in his eyes.

* * *

Joan woke up at the sound of her name. She sat straight up in bed and listened intently as she checked the clock. 3:33 A.M.. Before he called out a second time, she burst from the bed and headed straight for his room, instantly awake. It wasn't the first time she'd been woken up in the middle of the night by a client who needed her.

The detective was caught in a nightmare, tangled in the bed sheets. She called his name, but he didn't wake. She hesitated about coming in, unable to help noticing the sheet which, while still covering part of him, was revealing more than she'd seen so far. Taking a deep breath, she stared at his perfect skin, the curve of his backside pale against the ornamentation of his ink. When he moaned again, she snapped out of her daze, blushing as much as if she'd been caught. _For God's sake, Joan. Stop it,_ she thought, pulling herself together. She was a doctor, after all.

Stepping quickly in the room, she knelt down beside the bed. "Sherlock. C'mon, wake up. It's ok." He twisted towards her in the bed, but didn't wake. His sounds of terror made her blood run cold. Lately, he had changed. Something had been bothering him, and she'd not been able to get to the bottom of it. This had to be a part of the puzzle.

When he called her name again, she placed a hand on his shoulder. The warmth from his body seemed to burn her skin. "Sherlock. Wake up." He was usually such a light sleeper, and she began to worry that he wasn't seeming to come out of it. She shook him just a little more; there was no way she could let him continue in the grip of this nightmare.

She was calling his name again, frantically, when he opened his eyes.

His heart was pounding and she was right there beside him. She searched his face, while still keeping her grip on his shoulder. "Sherlock," she said his name, a whisper that hung in the air. "You're okay."

He continued staring at her. Then, before she knew it, he had swiftly enfolded her in his arms. "Alive. You're alive." He whispered against her hair.

"It was just a nightmare." She said softly, feeling herself return his embrace. The feel of his naked skin dazed her senses, and she found herself holding him longer than she'd meant to. Her heart was breaking at seeing this vulnerable side of him, a side she hadn't known existed. "It's okay. It wasn't real." He didn't reply, but she felt his breath against her neck. It was both heavenly and frightening at the same time. She struggled with the feeling of wanting to be in his arms.

"Sherlock?" She leaned back, but he held her tightly like a drowning swimmer holds onto a rescuer. She waited a few more moments, then tried again. "Um…Sherlock." Her body was flushed with a heat that she knew was dangerous. Somehow, she didn't care, but the last rational part of her mind tried again. She pulled away just a bit, and he released her, finally. She could see he was more in control of himself now. She, however, felt her pulse racing like she'd been on a three mile run.

"Watson." He said softly, looking away. "Sorry. It was…" He shook his head.

She nodded, letting out a sigh. "Must've been a really bad one." Knowing that he needed a few moments, to gather himself (because she surely did, she realized) Watson stood up and went to the door. "You ok?" She asked. He nodded. "I'm going to go make some coffee," she offered. "Want some?"

He nodded, finally able to reach her eyes with his gaze. "Be down in a moment."

"Okay." She reluctantly left the room, closing the door behind her.

* * *

**Author's note-please leave comments if you liked it! I live for reviews!


	3. Chapter 3

Author's note: Thanks to everyone who wrote comments for the other chapters. You have really spurred me on to this chapter, which was a beast to write (and I hope that the next chapter is not so hard). I hope it lives up to all the expectations! Please leave comments if you liked it. They really keep me going. Of course, I do not own any of these characters, blah blah blah.

* * *

Chapter 3

"Your turn." Sherlock gestured towards the gun resting on the shooting platform, a Glock Model 22. The firing range was loud and she had to watch his lips when he talked because they were wearing thick headphones to muffle the noise of the various shooters at the range. Thankfully, there was a pause in shots in the booth next to them as he gave her instructions.

"Pick up the gun; aim at the target through the sights, and then fire. Aim for the center body." He had questioned Watson about her shooting skills, found that they were nonexistent, and decided that they would see what she could do on the range today. It was odd, watching him expertly handle the gun, but not so surprising. Was there any talent that Holmes didn't have? He had told her on the way here that he picked his skills up in London, during his association with Scotland Yard.

The gun felt heavy in her hands, not natural, but she lifted it and aimed it for the center of the chest on the paper target. She pulled the trigger and saw nothing appear on the paper. A miss. "I don't think I'm going to be so good at …"

He leaned in and was close to her, fitting his body against her own. He reached forward and guided her hands on the weapon. "You must squeeze the trigger gently." He told her, his hands moving hers to a more natural position on the gun. "Don't jerk it, or the shot will go wide." She felt his breath against her neck as he leaned over her shoulder. "Like this. See?"

She nodded, swallowing hard as she felt the same rush of feelings from the other night. She tried to dismiss the rush of adrenaline in her veins at his closeness. _No_. _Focus, Watson_, she told herself. He would say…well, she didn't know what he would say if he knew about her growing attraction, but she was sure it would be dismissive. _Put it out of mind_, she told herself. He was her client, and while she wasn't exactly performing in her capacity as a doctor, she was sure that it wouldn't be entirely ethical anyway.

"Alright, here goes." She lined up the sights on the gun and squeezed the trigger three times. A hit in the middle of the head, and two off to the left of the man-shaped silhouette, just slightly. She smiled and glanced up at him. "Headshot," she said with a grin.

"But you were aiming for the chest, correct?" He asked her, an eyebrow raised.

"Okay." She admitted, defeated. "It's still better than before."

"Yes. Continue." He remained close to her, adjusting her grip again, then she squeezed off three more. This time, all were hits in the body area.

"Good. Finish out the magazine. Think before each shot."

She finished the rest of the shots, ten in all, and when the target was brought up, she was surprised to see she had hit with most of them, once he'd helped her adjust her movements.

"Women have better hand-eye coordination than men." He replied, pleased with her accuracy. "Let's try again."

By the end of the session, her wrists and hands were sore, but Sherlock seemed satisfied with her progress. He finished shooting the rest of the rounds, making a letter "H" in their last target.

"Show off." She rolled her eyes at him as they gathered up the targets and the rest of their things and headed to turn in their headphones.

He shrugged, but the slight smile let her know that he was pleased with her comment.

As they got in the car, she broached the question. "So. What's with all this? Why the sudden interest in improving our firearms skills? Is there some danger I don't know about?" While waiting for the car to warm up, she first rubbed one sore hand and then the other.

Without a word, he motioned to her. She gave him her hand and he began rubbing small circles on her palm, exactly where it was sore. "I'd forgotten what kind of recoil that one had," he remarked. "We have solved quite a few cases for Gregson. Probably made some enemies as well." He glanced up at her momentarily. "As well as … other people I've met during my time in London. It doesn't hurt to be prepared."

He sounded relaxed, but she knew there was something more to this. She'd seen him the past few days, checking and rechecking the window locks and door locks in the evening. Something had worried him and he was not himself. "Other hand." He said, taking her other wrist in his strong grip.

"You're worried." She realized. "Does it have something to do with the other night—the dream?" He had come downstairs, still wide-eyed and tightly strung. She'd stayed up with him all night long, but she'd not asked too many questions, knowing no one could force information from him until he was ready.

He glanced at her. "Yes, in a roundabout way." He'd briefly considered lying to her, but couldn't bring himself to do it. "I've made some enemies. One enemy in particular. A man named Moriarty—from London. He would…do anything to harm those I care about." His forehead wrinkled in worry. The dream of the other night had brought the truth home, even when he'd tried to deny it. If Moriarty's eye turned toward Holmes again, Joan could be in danger too. The last time they'd 'played the game' it had ended with the death of an innocent and Holmes' life in tatters. He didn't know if he was ready to face Moriarty again so soon.

She squeezed his hand tightly, bringing him out of his reverie. "What happened in London changed you. That's why you keep people at a distance, isn't it?" It was more of a statement than a question. Once again, her heart was pounding as she peeled back yet another layer. She was beginning to solve the puzzle that he was, and the mystery was both alluring and terrifying. She could see the tension flowing into his shoulders, neck and jawline and knew she was onto something.

He nodded. "It's less complicated that way, and I'm not very good at 'people' anyway." His voice was husky and his eyes looked glassy with tears that he wouldn't let fall. "Caring about people. Relationships, blah, blah, blah." He shook his head. "It's not really my… area of expertise."

"But your father… Your brother? You're close to them…"

He shook his head. "My father? No. Mycroft…Well," He squinted his eyes and thought. "It's just better to keep things the way they are. He tries to get too…involved."

She nodded, looking down at her hand still in his. What was she to deduce from that? "You can't keep everyone away, Sherlock." She said softly.

His mouth twisted in a frown again, and there was a long pause. "I can try." He whispered.

"That's a lonely road." She replied. Then she swallowed hard and went on. "Sherlock. I'm here for you. I hope you understand that. And it's not that this is my job. . ." She trailed off for a moment, then met his eyes. "It's become more than that."

He searched her face, an earnest expression in his eyes, but then something closed and Joan saw him look uncomfortable. "Well, Watson. I've grown very…fond of you as well." He gave her hand one last gentle squeeze and let it go. "As I've said before, you've become almost …indispensable in my work. I…I don't know what I'd do without you."

She smiled. It was a long way to come from "addict-sitter" to "friend." And, as she looked at him, she realized that these feelings she had…they came secondary to him and what he needed. Right now, he needed a strong shoulder to lean on, a friend, and a partner in his work. She would do all of those and anything else required because he was probably the most brilliant and complex person she had ever known. When she'd first met him, he'd done his utmost to be abrasive and distasteful, but she had seen beyond it. Each day since, he'd risen more and more in her esteem. Of course, that didn't mean he didn't frustrate her to no end, but he also fascinated her just as much, if not more.

"Thanks." She replied. "What you said, it means a lot to me." She started the car and pulled out of the parking lot.

"Well, you mean a lot to me, Watson. A man has to have a valet, bodyguard and housekeeper, after all." He smiled wickedly, and even though he ducked, she still managed to smack him on the back of the head.


	4. Chapter 4

Author's note: Again, I do not own these characters, but I love them.

* * *

Chapter Four

Sherlock stood in the dark, the only light coming from his computer screen. Unable to sleep, he had come down for a glass of milk, even though he knew it wouldn't help. He had taken to checking email, thinking maybe it would bore him to sleep as usual. There had been a question from Gregson, about a certain type of substance that the lab had found in a victim's toxicology assay. He consulted several volumes on his bookshelf, looking for the answer. It was a bit obscure, so he tried Wiley's _Textbook of Modern Toxicology_. It would have just the information he needed.

When he began flipping through the book, something hit the floor. He reached down to pick it up, without looking, as he was busy scanning for the right information. As soon as his fingers grasped the tiny flattened bag, he looked down, knowing what it was. It was a small bindle of heroin, no more than a hit. This was high grade gear, though, maybe China cat. He tilted his hand in the light, almost hypnotized as he looked at it.

It brought back memories, just as the banker case had done. He raised an eyebrow, wondering when he'd hidden this inside his book. He had no memory of it, but he'd done plenty of things in London that he had scanty memories of after **she **had been murdered. She'd been a colleague, on her way to becoming a friend. Maybe more than that. God knows how hard that had been for her, he thought, knowing how difficult a person he could be.

Olivia, who had been a forensic scientist at the lab, had been a frequent face, and then, after a time, they had become close. He would often call her when he had specific forensic questions, and she would consult on cases that he brought to the lab. He'd known she was attracted to him, and he hadn't been totally uninterested, but . . . nothing had happened between them. There just hadn't been time for it to develop.

Moriarty had murdered her. He wasn't ever able to prove it, oh no. The fiend had proved marvelously adept at hiding his connection to the killing. Sherlock had been pulling together all the crimes in London, seeing the gossamer connections and intimations that pointed to a mastermind of the criminal element. He'd gotten too close, and Moriarty had noticed him. Sherlock had continued to push, disrupting as much of Moriarty's network as he could, even after the first warning. Then, the second warning had been deadly.

He remembered finding her near his lodgings on Baker Street, and his face twisted with grief. The first winter storm had started, and if not for her red coat against the snow, he might have missed her in the alley as he went around to the back. He'd forgotten his keys, and was going to try the back door, when he saw her, her coat spread out over the whiteness, her body propped against the wall as if waiting for him. Her clothes had been impeccably clean, with absolutely no trace evidence of any kind. A week after it happened, he had gotten a letter, addressed in silver pen on black stationery. It had said simply "I win this one. Play again? M."

He found that the muscles in his body were aching from tension. It would be easy, he knew, to use again. To find the oblivion that would be blessed peace from his memories. He clenched the bag in his fist and looked away. Those were the thoughts of a junkie. But wasn't that exactly what he was? His face twisted in self-loathing. His very brain itched with craving. Heading upstairs, he did the only thing he knew to do to soothe the tempest in his mind.

* * *

She was sure Sherlock's presence had woken her, but he was standing stone still beside the window, looking out and not making any noise. The moonlight and faint glow of the streetlights outside highlighted his form in the darkness.

"Sherlock?" She asked, sitting up in bed. "What's up?" She brushed her long hair from her face and waited, thinking he'd had another nightmare.

In the darkness, he came toward her, and handed her something small. "Hidden. In a book. I didn't remember about it."

Turning on the light, she saw what he meant. The packet of powder sat on her palm, small but sinister- looking. Her eyes widened. This could be the relapse that she'd worried about. She searched his face, looking for signs that he was high. He seemed lost and shaken, but that was all. "Okay." She said, calm and collected. "I'll be right back." She headed for the bathroom and returned after he heard a flushing sound.

As she'd done so many times before, she handed him the drug test and watched while he mechanically swabbed his mouth. "I'm still clean." He told her, handing it back.

"I know." She said, glancing down briefly and then tossing it in a nearby trash can_._ "Sit down." She gestured to the bed, and then took a seat beside him. "Want to tell me?"

"The banker case was bad." He admitted, not meeting her eyes. "But. . .this. . ." He looked down at his empty, shaky hand, glad that temptation was gone. "I almost gave in, Watson. For a moment. . .all I could remember was the good part about it. The oblivion." His unfocused gaze studied the floor.

"You did the right thing." She reassured him, sitting beside him on the bed. "It brought back memories again, didn't it? Like before." She already knew it had, but thought she might be able to get him to talk about it. Any part of his history would help her, especially anything about London. The place he'd crashed and crashed hard.

He nodded. "I started with drugs after she was killed-Olivia Hastings."

Joan pulled her feet up on the bed, wrapping her arms around her knees. It was chilly in the room and as he spoke, it seemed to feel colder. "She meant a lot to you. Was she a girlfriend?"

He shook his head. "She might have been if there'd been more time, but no. We knew each other from Scotland Yard. She was a forensic scientist and we worked together frequently. I suppose we became rather fond of each other, although I don't know how. You and I both know how difficult I can be." A sadness touched his features and she had to clench both hands around her knees to keep from wanting to reach out for him. It was important that he tell this story, she knew.

"How…how did she die? You said she got killed." She gently urged.

His eyes hardened. "Moriarty. She was strangled. Just because she knew me—just because she was someone I cared for. I had gotten close to him, to seeing the entire society of crime that he commanded, and it was a warning to back off." He looked at her, trying to explain. "He is an organizer. A spider in a great web of crime that reaches worldwide. He sent the first warning. A note. The second one was Olivia. Her death was at least partially my fault."

"No. No it wasn't." She interrupted quickly.

"Watson." He shook his head, as if she didn't understand. "Of course, I know I didn't kill her, but she died because she was close to me. Moriarty was impossible to find. I believe he has an intellect nearly equal to my own. I tried each and every moment to track him down, for a while, until I lost hope. I was obsessed with the failure. That's when I started with whatever drug I could get my hands on…to distract myself from everything."

She didn't know what to say, so she got up on her knees and reached out and wrapped her arms around him, unable to help herself. He rested his head against her for a long moment.

"Look at all you've done now. I'm proud of you." She whispered against his short unruly hair.

He shook his head. "Proud." He made a dismissive sound. "I'm an addict. Just a junkie. That's all tonight proved." Knowing he didn't deserve her words, he pulled away from her embrace, even though it was the last thing he wanted to do.

"Stop." She said quietly, trying to command his attention. It left her heart aching to hear him talk like this-the self-loathing from his voice, coming out of him like poison, an infection in his soul. She wanted to fix it, but didn't know how.

"Oh, come on Watson. It's best that we see it for what it is, right? It doesn't matter what I do, how many cases I solve, or how long I stay clean. . .I'm still an addict." He spat the word out. "No matter how much I hate what I am… it doesn't change anything." Before he could say more, she leaned in again, and made him look at her, a hand on each side of his face.

"Now shut up and listen." She said in a voice that sounded calm and strong. "Yes. You're right. You are an addict. You always will be. But that doesn't mean you can hate yourself. You're human. That's why I lov… I mean it's...one of the things I…like about you." She colored at her Freudian slip and let him go.

Sherlock blinked twice, slowly, as if coming to a realization, and began to speak, but she silenced him with a look.

"No. We've talked enough for tonight. You're exhausted." _Let me shut up before I say something else stupid_, she thought. "Stay." She motioned to the bed. "It's too early in the morning, and I'm not leaving you alone."

Unbelievably, he gave in without argument as she threw a blanket on him. He noticed the pillows smelled faintly like her perfume: rose, jasmine and a hint of cedar. It was comforting. All at once, everything caught up to him and he found his eyes slipping closed even before she returned to the bed.

She crawled up next to him, picking a place beneath the covers. "Don't you dare leave this room without telling me."

"Of course." He murmured. He tried to focus his mind on what she had said, but it was too difficult. He found everything slipping away as sleep claimed him.

She listened to his breathing slow down, and when she was sure he was asleep, she let her eyes roam over his face. A danger point had come and gone and he'd remained sober. There would be others, she knew, but she felt relieved; maybe her feelings for him weren't getting in the way of doing a good job. Still, she worried. She would ponder what he'd told her, use it to help him in any way she could. She had to stay focused.

He'd told her about seeing the puzzles in everything, and how it pushed people away. She had thought she agreed until now. Every piece of his puzzle that she put into place brought them, not further apart, but inexorably closer together.

* * *

Author's note: Comments welcome!


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

**Author's Note: This chapter took the longest of any of them to write. It was torture, but maybe I found my way through to what I wanted to create. Please don't judge too harshly; I had to go ahead and post it. If I work on this chapter any more, I might need medical or psychiatric attention (LOL).**

* * *

It had been a few days since he'd had that bad night, and Joan still knew the detective wasn't back to himself. She kept a close eye on Sherlock, and when he was upstairs, she tried to search the rest of the apartment as well as she could, to make sure that there were no more time bombs ticking away, waiting to be found by Sherlock. The place was clean, as far as she could tell, but it still didn't make her feel any better.

Sherlock wasn't sleeping very well. She'd heard him rambling around the old brownstone, searching through files and playing his violin in the middle of the night several times. The next day, she'd come downstairs to find him asleep on the couch. The dark smudges under his eyes only made her worry about him more, even though he insisted everything was fine.

Something was bothering him, but he wasn't sharing. They helped Gregson with a case, but it provided only a momentary lift to Sherlock's spirits. Today, there was no case and she hadn't been able to get him to eat all day. Finally, she had gone out to pick up dinner, and now she was walking back to the house carrying their favorite Chinese take-out. If twice-cooked pork and beef jaiozi couldn't tempt him to eat, then she was at a loss.

When she got back to their block, something caught her eye in the alleyway next to the brownstone. She took a few steps closer and saw what looked like a red high-heeled shoe, half hidden at the entrance to the alley. She narrowed her eyes and took a few more cautious steps deeper into the alley. In the shadows, she saw the outline of a woman, clad in a long coat, lying on the ground. The woman's lifeless eyes were open in horror.

She gasped and backed out without touching anything.

* * *

Sherlock was picking an "unpickable" Medeco lock when she came in. He glanced up, then back down, then back up when the look on her face registered. "What is it?" He stood up, placing the lock on the table and studying her face.

She tried to talk, but nothing came out for a second. That only caused Sherlock more consternation and he came to her as she dropped the bag of food on the floor. "Joan?" He said, putting a hand on each shoulder. "What happened?"

"Call…call Gregson. There's a lady in the alley that's been murdered." Joan managed to say. It had startled her, but she was recovering. She'd seen murder victims at other scenes, but this…this was somewhat more frightening somehow, being right next door to where they lived.

Sherlock snatched his phone off the table. "Captain Gregson, please… It's Holmes. You need to send someone here…" There was a pause and he made his way across the room to where he stored his pistol. He took it from the drawer and stalked back to where Joan was. "Apparently there's been a murder in my alleyway…Yes. Thank you."

The phone call ended, and Sherlock spoke again. "I'll be right back."

She shook her head. "I'm going with you."

He met her eyes for a second, then nodded. He quickly put on his coat and stashed the gun in the pocket. They made their way out and Joan showed him where the woman was. Sherlock began by looking at the red shoe. "It's an expensive choice of footwear." He said, eyeing it without touching it. "And new, from the lack of wear on the sole."

"She's in there." Joan gestured into the shadows. "Guess we'd better wait for the police?"

Sherlock agreed. "They'll want to photograph it first." There was a siren, and the next few minutes were full of police coming and going, and setting up a perimeter. Joan gave a statement to the police. During all of it, Sherlock was examining the area around the alleyway for any clue. There weren't any.

When Gregson showed up with the forensic team, Sherlock and Joan began to snap on gloves and examine the scene. A flash of light from a camera lit up the alley along with several high powered lights. When Sherlock saw the body, he froze so quickly that Joan actually ran into him from behind.

"Hey! What is it?" Joan asked.

Sherlock's eyes were locked onto the woman. "Olivia." He breathed, so softly she could hardly hear.

Joan's alarm intensified. She tried to stop him, but he walked forward. The woman was dressed in a red high heel, a red dress and a red coat. "Sherlock."

"Shhh." He whispered, seeming annoyed. He shook his head and knelt down to take a closer look.

"Sherlock. It's not her." Joan murmured, unsure of what he was thinking.

Sherlock looked up at her. "I know, but someone's gone to a lot of trouble to make it look like her." He took his phone and took pictures of the bruising on the dark-haired woman's neck. He then remained staring as he continued speaking. "She's been posed." This was too familiar. He could feel the black hole of the past open up and try to pull him in.

"It could be a coincidence." She offered.

"It could have been an accident too, but it's not." He snapped, a little too loudly and quickly. She said nothing, but remained standing behind him. "Sorry." He added, looking up self-consciously to see the officers milling around. Detective Bell glanced at them and Sherlock looked down in frustration, trying to keep his reeling emotions in check.

"It's ok." She said. "What else can you tell?"

"She's got two cats, a gray Persian and a Russian Blue, you can tell from the fur on her coat. She types for a living, probably a secretary. Her fingernails, manicured but short for typing." She could almost hear his mind whirling. All of a sudden, he abruptly stood up and turned to Joan.

"There's nothing else to learn here." He walked to Gregson. "Call me if you need me, but this one is straightforward. Someone, a professional, was hired to do this. The victim was not killed by anyone she knew. No sexual assault or robbery. Unless you luck up on a witness or DNA, you won't solve this one."

With that, he turned and stalked back towards the front door. Joan looked at Gregson, shrugged her shoulders and followed Sherlock back to their apartment.

"Talk to me." She said, taking off her scarf and coat and watching as he did the same. He placed the gun on the dining room table and began to pace the room. "Sherlock?" She asked.

He said nothing, lost in thought. "Don't shut me out," she tried again. He was at the fireplace when he turned and looked at her, but he was not seeing her. He was lost in the shades of the past.

She stepped forward slowly, as if nearing a frightened, wild animal. "Tell me."

He still wasn't making eye contact, but he began talking. "This woman was wearing the same clothing. The body. It was posed the same." He had possessed the crime scene photos at one time, in one of his files, but he didn't need to see them. He had the entire crime scene memorized. Everything had been set up to mimic that first crime scene. "Watson. This is a warning from Moriarty." He said after a few long moments.

"What do you mean?" She asked. "I thought he was in London."

"He is everywhere." Sherlock said. "I should have known he'd be watching. He killed her, no…he had someone kill her, just to let me know he's still watching."

Joan thought, trying to let her mind encompass the facts as Sherlock would. Moriarty: a criminal genius. Sherlock: the flip side of the coin. The same type of genius bringing criminals to justice. Of course Moriarty would see a rivalry and try to bring the great detective to his knees. He'd tried it once, and he'd almost destroyed Sherlock in the process. "It's a game to him, isn't it?" She said. "He didn't think you would recover last time. That's why he's left you alone. But now…"

"Now that I'm working as a consulting detective again, he plans to try and destroy me. Or at least rattle me." Sherlock said simply. He stood silent for a moment, looking into Joan's face. He studied every freckle, the curve of her mouth, and her large, worried, dark eyes. "I don't care what happens to me, but you. You'll have to leave. The risk is too great."

"What? No." She said, shaking her head. "I can take care of myself." _And you can't_…she added in her mind.

"He will do what he can to hurt you, if you're here." Sherlock's eyes appeared dark in the shadowed apartment and she almost didn't recognize him. He'd been slipping away from her to this dark place for a while now. "You can't stay here. It's almost been six weeks anyway. Just go." He turned away from her miserably, and she found her heart breaking. "I don't need an addict-sitter anymore."

"The last time you met him…you were alone. You're not alone anymore." She found her feet taking steps toward him almost automatically.

"I'm used to it. I like being alone."

"No. You don't."

"Stop wasting your time. I'll probably just relapse anyway and all your work will have been for naught." His voice sounded flippant, but she knew it was a lie.

"No. You won't."

"It doesn't matter what happens to me." His voice was lower, and full of sadness.

"It matters to me." She had reached him and stood silently next to him. "I care."

He turned and she saw a slight sheen of tears in his eyes. "Watson. You're wasting your time. I'm not worth it."

"Yes." She leaned in and did the thing that she'd wanted to for so long. He had to know what she felt for him. Her lips brushed his own softly, and her pulse rose as she realized he was returning her affections. "You're worth everything to me." She whispered, when they parted. She hadn't known whether she should reveal her feelings, but she had. She hoped it was not the wrong thing to do.

He shook his head, as if he was still trying to wrap his mind around what she'd said and done. "I can't lose you."

"You won't." She assured him. "I'm here. We're in this together." She took his hand in hers and gave it a squeeze. He gave her that frownish-looking smile and nodded.

"Now, you're going to eat something and tell me everything we know about this criminal." She led him over to the table. "Start at the beginning."

* * *

Later that night, after Sherlock had told her what he knew of Moriarty and his tangled web of crime, Joan found she couldn't sleep. If what Sherlock had said was true, Moriarty was frighteningly powerful, anonymous, and malevolent. Nothing that Sherlock had found out could be usable in court. For every crime that Moriarty sponsored, nothing could be linked to him. Several times when Sherlock had found those who would turn against Moriarty, the would-be source of information would vanish or turn up dead.

To everyone, Moriarty appeared to be a successful mathematics professor at King's College, London. He spent much of his time guest lecturing in different places around the globe. A good cover, she realized. He was also a lecturer in the area of criminal psychology, which piqued her interest. _You're tipping your hand there, Moriarty_, she thought wryly. She looked up his profile on the faculty page. He was a hawkish looking older man, with a full head of gray hair and a humorous expression in his brown eyes. She stared at it long enough to know she'd recognize him if she saw him.

Finally, she sighed and shut her computer. If Sherlock was right, and she didn't doubt him, this man would most likely be impossible to bring to justice. She'd asked about any evidence or files that Sherlock had on him, and she'd found out that they were all gone. When his addiction had forced him from his flat in London, he thought he'd lost everything, but his brother, Mycroft, had saved most of his things, like his books and files. But somehow the boxes on Moriarty were gone.

She leaned back in bed and tried to imagine the hell that Sherlock had gone through in London, the guilt he'd felt over Olivia's death. She knew, from her training as a sober companion, what life had probably been like for him. He'd been lucky, and not ended up with any lasting health complications, but from what she could tell from his medical records, once he'd started doing heroin, he'd crashed fast. He'd overdosed and been hospitalized at least twice. He'd run away from four rehabs in London. His family had almost given up on him, his father had told her, but they'd tried rehab one last time in America at Hendale. And he'd stayed…well, he'd left a few hours early, agreed, but he'd completed the program. That said he was ready to have a future again.

Now, he was doing what he loved. What he was good at. Joan found herself thinking of the pleasure of watching him work. He was brilliant…miles ahead of everyone…too fast to slow down. She had probably fallen for him the first time she'd seen him work. And now…she shook her head with a smile. She'd known she wouldn't be leaving in six weeks. She hadn't known how, but she'd come to realize that her future was entangled with his. Maybe it was those comments he made about her growing ability to deduce things and his evident pride when she was right. Maybe it was how he'd begun to show her his tricks and teach her how to rely on her own skills. Whatever it was, she'd known that this went far beyond their initial relationship as sober companion and client.

She realized with a start that it was four in the morning. She went to place her laptop on the table by her window, so she could flip the light off and go to bed. Maybe there was still SOME hope for sleep this night.

When she turned, he was standing right behind her. She tried to hide her surprise after the initial gasp. "Oh! Can't sleep either?"

He shook his head. "Too much thinking."

"It's been a rough night." She agreed, looking up into his eyes. He wasn't wearing a shirt, again and her gaze lingered along his tattooed skin before she reached his face.

"Your freckles show up more when you've washed off your makeup." He observed.

She blushed, not knowing what to say. "Okay…."

"You shouldn't cover them up. I think they're beautiful."

"Thanks." She blushed again. They had spent a lot of time tonight talking about the past, but neither of them had talked about the now…the kiss…the feelings between them. He leaned in and kissed her hungrily and all the words she knew seemed to take flight from her mind like a flock of birds.

"I wanted to tell you that I love you, Miss. Watson." These words were so soft, spoken in his velvety voice, that she wasn't sure she heard them, but she knew she had.

"You…should know I feel the same way about you." She breathed, and leaned in to kiss him again, letting her eyes drift closed in pure bliss. Yes, God yes. This felt right. She reached up to let her hands brush over his chest.

He went from trying to think logically to not thinking at all, when he felt the touch of her hands. He hadn't realized or cared that he was so lonely, until she had become his companion. Now he couldn't help but indulge his desire for her. He needed her. His hungry growl surprised Joan, and she answered him with kisses as he pulled off her pajamas. After shedding the rest of his clothes onto the floor, they fell to bed, tangled in each other's arms.

When they had satisfied themselves, they fell asleep without saying a word, nestled against each other. For a time, neither fear, nor worries for the future clouded their minds; they only felt the satisfaction of knowing their loneliness was over.

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	6. Chapter 6

Author's note: Sorry this is so short, but I just felt it was a better stand alone chapter. Hope you're still enjoying this! Thanks for all the lovely reviews!

Chapter Six:

Gregson sat back in his chair, pondering what Holmes had just told him. Apparently the detective had made a powerful enemy in London and that unfortunate legacy had followed him here to New York. Gregson wasn't entirely convinced that someone could cover their tracks so completely as Holmes claimed Moriarty could do, but it was true there were no leads on the woman they'd found last night outside Holmes's apartment: Mary Michaels. No DNA, no print evidence, no witnesses. He'd already done a search on the Olivia Hastings's murder as they talked and Scotland Yard would be sending the case files via encrypted email in a few minutes. He planned to go over that data with a fine toothed comb.

The sip of cold coffee made Gregson grimace. "Look, Holmes. I'm not sure of all that's going on here, but what I am sure of is that if this Professor Moriarty shows up, you need to let us know right away. I don't want you dealing with him in any way without backup. I'll come personally."

Holmes was touched. He'd known that Gregson was an ally, but he hadn't realized the depth of the friendship between them. "I appreciate that, but I doubt if we'll see him. He does little of his dirty work personally."

Gregson nodded, then looked up as his computer chimed softly. The email from Scotland Yard. "The case file on Ms. Hastings." He nodded at the screen, then began clicking through the pages.

"May I look?" Joan asked. When Gregson nodded again, she came around the desk to peer at the screen. Sherlock stayed seated, although whether because he knew the file already or didn't want to view it again, Joan wasn't sure. She glanced at him inquiringly, and he responded to her with a slight shake of the head.

"Same thing here as in our case. No evidence in any way. No DNA, fingerprints, footprints, witnesses." Gregson sighed in frustration. Then his eyes widened. "Damn. The crime scenes are identical." He had clicked on the picture of the body, and they both watched as the body of a similar dark haired woman, with one red heel, red dress and red coat flashed larger onto the screen. The other heel was at the entrance to the alley, just as in the New York crime scene.

"The crimes are identical, but it's not the same killer." Joan's eyes darted to Sherlock as he spoke. He was looking down, but when he felt her gaze he met her eyes briefly.

"How the hell can you tell it's not the same guy?" Gregson asked, leaning back in his chair and looking at Holmes.

"Hand size." He was tapping on his phone until he found the correct picture of the crime. "Both men had strong hands, but Olivia's—the London murderer had a smaller hand than this one. This man, the New York murderer had extremely large hands." He pointed to his phone. "I'd estimate his height at close to six feet. The London murderer was somewhere between five foot four and five foot six."

Gregson nodded, then leaned closer to the screen. Holmes's statement to police, made four years ago was in front of him. He glanced at Joan, who was scanning it with interest. "You found Ms. Hastings. She was a friend of yours from Scotland Yard."

Holmes nodded, and Gregson leaned back in his chair again. "It says here she was found in the alley next to your apartment. I'm sorry."

Joan's sharp eyes darted to Sherlock's face. He seemed composed; however, she knew differently from the way his eyes darted away from Gregson's shrewd gaze. "She was a good person. Very devoted to her job and colleagues."

Gregson nodded. "Look. I'm not sure what else we can do now. I've got officers canvassing the area, looking for witnesses. I think it might be best if we keep our eyes open for now. If I hear anything, I'll call you first. If this Professor Moriarty comes to New York, I'll have men following him."

Holmes nodded, knowing deep down that there was nothing Gregson could do to stop any of Moriarty's plans. His friend could never take this seriously enough. Yet, he'd felt compelled to disclose what he knew about Moriarty's connection to this crime. Perhaps it could help somehow. "Thank you." They shook hands, then he turned to go.

Joan went to follow Sherlock out, but Gregson caught her eye. "He ok?" He asked in a low voice.

"I hope so." She replied, quietly. "Thanks."

Gregson nodded and watched as Joan followed Holmes out. His contact at Scotland Yard had filled him in on Holmes's dogged search for Ms. Hastings's killer. Apparently Holmes had known the forensic scientist. He'd prayed that Sherlock would be wrong about the connection, but the two crimes were mirror images of each other. And the detective was never wrong. As he watched Joan and Sherlock disappear from view, he realized the feeling in his gut wasn't wrong either. They were in for a long and bumpy ride with this one.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

**Author's Note: Thanks to everyone for commenting on this story. I'm sure that's why I've been able to keep up the pace (and hopefully your interest) this long. Thanks to all my constant readers and reviewers! (Especially "newboy" who I can't thank enough for giving me an idea for the end of this thing. –and seriously I can't thank you b/c the way you log in to leave a review, I can't reply to your comments.)**

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They returned home, feeling a little lighter now that they had spoken with Gregson. Sherlock had even agreed to go to the art museum with her later that day, but first they were going to go home and eat lunch. Joan saw it as a good sign. Sherlock needed to do something besides sit around the house and worry.

"So who IS your favorite artist?" Joan asked as they neared the apartment.

"Deduce it." He told her.

"Well…I don't think you'd like Monet, or Van Gogh or any of those landscape painters. Too boring." She eyed him as they reached the door. "Someone like Mondrian? Picasso?"

She didn't get her answer because when the door swung open, Sherlock froze for a moment. "Wait." He whispered. Something was wrong, but he couldn't put his finger on what it was. Everything seemed the same on first glance, but it was as if he could sense the disturbance of another person in their flat. He walked in slowly, looking from side to side, trying to consciously pick up on the hints that had clued him into the intrusion. He eyed the floor, then stopped at the table by the stairs. He tilted his head as he examined the pile of mail on the table that he hadn't gotten to yet. Something was wrong, he thought. The mail had been gone through, he was certain.

Before he knew it, Joan was at his side. She said nothing; he motioned for her to wait there as he continued inside. He retrieved his gun, checked it and then carried it with him as they explored the rooms. The boxes that held his case files were stacked up against the wall, three high, just like they had been before. But they were not just like they had been before; they had been moved. He pointed towards them and raised an eyebrow at Joan. Her puzzled look let Sherlock know that she didn't realize what he saw so clearly. "Someone's looked through them," he mouthed.

Her eyes got large, but she said nothing. She turned to glance into the kitchen, but saw no one. She followed Sherlock to the stairs and together they checked the upper level of the apartment.

When they were sure they were alone, Sherlock picked up a notepad. "Not sure. We could be bugged." He checked to make sure she understood, then wrote, "Let's go see Ted Gallap."

Ted Gallap was a man they had met a few weeks ago, when following up a lead for a case. He owned a high tech surveillance shop where their suspect, a jealous husband, had bought cameras and other listening devices to snoop on his wife. The husband had been guilty of murder, which ironically had been caught on the very devices that had clued him in to the infidelity. The pathetic excuse for a killer had not even erased the records of his crime; they'd caught him easily.

Ted had been friendly and helpful, and Holmes had been full of questions about the latest high tech gear. Now that equipment was exactly what they needed. When he and Joan got outside, Sherlock called Ted's shop and told them what they required.

An hour and a half later, they were both sweeping the apartment for bugs and hidden cams. There was nothing, of course. When she was done with the upstairs, she came back downstairs to find Sherlock sitting at the dining room table. "Clean?"

"Yeah." She nodded. "So, as far as you know, nothing was stolen?"

He shook his head. "Nothing. Each box of my files has been rifled through, however. Nothing has been stolen, just…examined."

"You have a deduction, I assume." She took a seat near him.

He gave a little half smile. "Yes. I think a certain someone is trying to see if we're 'checking up' on him." Then he leaped up and went for his computer desk. "Computers too. Let's see if we have a security breach."

He started their computers up and checked them. Records showed they had both been logged into while Sherlock and Joan were with Gregson. "They cracked our passwords?"

"It appears so. Professionals. Probably two of them: one to check the apartment, and a hacker for the computers." Sherlock said. "They were on a fact-finding mission. They didn't bother to try to hide their activity, either. It appears Moriarty wants us to know that he was looking." It seemed as if his brain went round and round in circles when he tried to figure out the goals and motivations of Moriarty. Just when he thought he had a handle on the situation, he was sure he didn't.

"Even if they had tried to hide it, you would realize." She leaned forward and rested her chin on her hand, thinking. He noticed that she'd gone with some type of lighter makeup, and he could see the smattering of her freckles across her cheeks. She was beautiful, and she didn't even realize it. He got lost in studying her face, and she began to look a little self-conscious at his intense gaze. "What?"

He shook his head, looking away. If Moriarty even thought about hurting her, Sherlock knew he would take him out without a second thought. There were enough reasons to relieve the world of the burden of his presence already. With Moriarty's flair for the dramatic, Sherlock knew that he would have a warning before anything happened. Then he would make a move. Joan would have to be kept in the dark, however. He couldn't risk her life, no matter how sincere her offer to stand by his side.

"What is it?" She asked again.

"I love you." He said, almost shyly. Deciding that he would take on Moriarty alone made him feel even lonelier, but it was better than the alternative.

Glancing up, he saw the worry on her face. He still found it hard to believe that she cared for him. Sometimes he found that he forgot that and just accepted her love, but most of the time, it both bewildered and astonished him.

"I love you too." She replied softly, reaching out for him. Her fingers brushed the scar across his wrist then closed tightly around his hand. "Things are going to be okay. We'll face whatever he's planning together."

He nodded, then appeared to Joan to dismiss the whole matter in his mind. "Now, what about that trip to the museum? No reason to let this ruin our day."

She looked surprised, but then smiled. It was as brilliant as a ray of light through a prism and it lifted the darkness from his heart for a while. "Yeah," she said. "Let's get out of here. We'll pick up some lunch on the way."

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**Please read and review!**


	8. Chapter 8

**Author's note: I am not a texter, so please forgive if the text message format is a little off. I think the idea will come across either way. **

**Thank you so much to all that have supported my story and left comments. There should be an ending to this very soon, and I hope it lives up to everyone's expectations. Again, I couldn't do it without your comments and support. (This is the longest thing I've ever written on my own!)**

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Chapter Eight:

She woke up to the heavenly smell of banana bread drifting through the apartment, and it made her smile. It was her favorite, and apparently someone had been paying attention at their many coffee shop stops while working cases. Of course Sherlock was up before she was, that was one of the constants since they had lived in the brownstone together. Joan had never beaten him downstairs—not even once.

She stretched languidly in his bed, glancing around the room. The room was painted in a cool shade of green with a touch of blue. Other than the dark chest of drawers and the piles of books everywhere, it was devoid of any artwork or personal items. She supposed that made sense; up until now, he'd spent little time in here. That caused a wicked smile to cross her face as she thought of last night. If their activities were any indication, they were going to spend a lot more time in here, she thought with a grin. She replayed their time together last night and continued to smile. In bed, he was both rough and sweet, needy and demanding, experienced and shy: a tantalizing mixture of contradictions. The burgeoning relationship had not changed their friendship; their love for each other had only cemented their closeness.

It was raining outside, and only a soft rumble of thunder interrupted the drops pattering above. She found herself wondering about that banana bread; he must have had to hit the coffee shop three blocks away for it…unless…no way. There was no way he made it himself. In an oven? She tried to remember where the fire extinguisher was as she leaped to her feet, and ran for her room. She threw on silk pajama bottoms and an oversized tee and ran downstairs, taking them two at a time.

"Oh my god," she breathed. He WAS taking a muffin pan out of the oven. "Um…is it the last day of the world? The apocalypse?" She made a show of checking the calendar, then turned to him.

He was holding a pan of perfectly baked banana bread muffins when he turned around and raised an eyebrow. "Watson. I CAN read directions on a package."

"Ok…truce." She leaned in to catch a whiff of the aroma. "They do smell wonderful." When he turned to place them on a plate, she wrapped her arms around his waist. "Thank you." She placed a quick kiss on his cheek and took a muffin from the plate to go with the cup of coffee he soon handed her.

He seemed pleased with her reaction. "Looks like a dull day for crime in New York. Sundays are always the slowest." After tidying up in the kitchen, they made their way to the living room and he watched her curl up on the couch, bare feet tucked underneath her.

"Maybe we can take in a movie later." She said, checking her phone for messages, in case she'd missed something. She was used to taking her phone with her to bed, but they'd both been too preoccupied last night to do that.

"Sure." He replied, making eye contact briefly before turning back to his email. "Your choice."

"I'll check and see what's playing." She hadn't looked up this time, as she was trying to return a text that her mother had sent last night.

Sherlock felt his phone vibrate. He took it out, checked it and froze for a millisecond. He glanced at Joan, who was still absorbed in her messages. He got up, smoothly returning the device to his pocket. "More coffee?" He asked her.

She nodded. "Oh, yeah. Thanks."

He took the cup into the kitchen with his own, then snatched the phone from his pocket.

The text was from an unfamiliar number.

**From: 9173420012**

**9:17 AM**

**Been a long time.**

**Did U get my msgs?**

**M**

His mouth was set in a grim line. Somehow, he'd known this was coming. He returned the message.

**From: SH**

**9:19 AM**

**Yes. You were quite predictable.**

He set the phone down and took Joan more coffee. "I'll be cleaning up in the kitchen."

Joan looked surprised, but didn't argue. "Thanks." In a moment, he heard her chatting with her mother on the phone.

He turned on the water in the sink, and put the muffin pan in to soak. Then he checked the phone.

**From: 9173420012**

**9:24 AM**

**Surprisd to hear u're wking agn.**

**Thought u'd given it up.**

**From: SH**

**9:25 AM**

**What do u want?**

**From: 9173420012**

**9:26 AM**

**Just chking on u, old friend.**

**We should meet in prsn sometime.**

**From: SH**

**9:27 AM**

**What is there 2 discuss?**

**From: 9173420012**

**9:29 AM**

**Arrangements. **

**I'm expanding operations.**

**We wouldn't want 2 get in each other's way as before.**

**From:SH**

**9:30 AM**

**Wouldn't we?**

**From: 9173420012**

**9:31 AM**

***sigh***

**Is this the game you want 2 play?**

**From :SH **

**9:32 AM**

**U're the one always playing games. **

**Public place if u pls.**

**From:9173420012**

**9:33 AM**

**Museum of Modern Art.**

**From: SH**

**9:34 AM**

**What time?**

**From: 9173420012**

**9:36 AM**

**2morrow morn. 10 AM. **

**Special pass for u at front.**

**U can bring ur friend.**

**From: SH**

**9:38 AM**

**U must have 4got. Don't have friends. **

**From: 9173420012**

**9:39 AM**

**Liar. **

**2morrow then.**

He stared at last message, then deleted it with all the others. A voice inside of him told him it could be a real mistake to meet Moriarty, but he knew there was no way to avoid it. There were hundreds of ways this could turn out, but he knew most likely it would end as some sort of draw. The public place would help to ensure that; neither of them could take action against the other without notice-unless Moriarty planned to have him shot in the head from a sniper's position as soon as he showed up.

He considered that, and realized it could happen any other time just as easily. If it was to happen, best if Joan was not around. If death was not Moriarty's plan, this meeting could give him some insight into what they should expect from this sociopath. A plan for tomorrow began to form in his mind as he finished the washing up.

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**AN: Don't forget to read and review! :)**


	9. Chapter 9

Author's note: Thanks again to all those who continually read and review! Reviews are the fuel to the writing engine!

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Chapter 9

It was easy to slip from the bed without waking her. They had been up late last night; he'd planned it that way so he could be gone before she awakened. Sherlock silently pulled on a black t-shirt, jeans and shoes in the early morning light, then he paused to look at her. Her skin was washed in the pinkish radiance of the new sun, a glow that seemed to make her even more lovely, if that was possible. He didn't know if leaving her here was the right thing to do; but it seemed better than the alternative of taking her into danger with him. She would just have to understand.

Once downstairs, he sat down in front of the computer and looked over the information for the museum-floor plans, exits and the like. Then he composed a note for Joan.

**Moriarty's here. **

**I'm sorry. I could never put you in danger. **

**I'm sending Gregson to protect you. STAY HERE!**

**I will always love you more than I can say.**

**SH**

With that, he grabbed his coat. He briefly toyed with taking his pistol with him, but decided against it. There would probably be metal detectors at the museum anyway. He went upstairs and left the note on the bedside table. He couldn't bear to look at her again, knowing he might change his mind if he saw her sleeping face.

As he walked to the subway, he texted Gregson:

**From: SH**

**8:49 AM**

**Going to meet Moriarty.**

**Go to the flat and watch over Joan.**

**She doesn't know yet.**

**From: Gregson**

**8:55 AM**

**No. Let me send someone. Don't do this alone.**

**From: SH**

**8:56 AM**

**You can't stop me. Already on my way.**

**GO NOW. Do NOT let anything happen to Joan.**

**From: Gregson:**

**8:57 AM**

**Where? Where is this meeting?!**

**From: Gregson**

**8:59 AM**

**Holmes, where are you going?**

**From Gregson: **

**8:59 AM**

**Holmes?**

* * *

AN: Sorry to leave you with a cliffhanger, but this is as far as I can post while I finish the rest of the story. All the rest of the chapters should be finished and posted by next week sometime (unless the muse deserts me).


	10. Chapter 10

AN: Ok-Here's the chapter everyone's been waiting for…I'm glad I was able to post it earlier than expected. You may recognize some of the elements from "The Final Problem" by Conan Doyle (thanks to Newboy for that idea). I am just stunned by everyone's positive reviews. They are greatly appreciated.

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Chapter 10

Gregson cursed Holmes as he tried one more message. The consulting detective hadn't responded to either messages or calls since his last communication. He reached the brownstone and took the steps two at a time. The door swung open when he touched it, and he felt his stomach drop. He examined it carefully and saw it hadn't been kicked in. A closer focus on the tiny scratches on the new lock revealed it had been expertly picked. He was full of worry, but he drew his gun smoothly and proceeded inside.

Everything seemed in order downstairs, until he glanced down at the front hallway and saw a few drops of blood on the floor. "Damn it." He cursed. Looking up the stairs, he saw two more drops on the third step. He avoided them and followed the drops upstairs to the bedrooms. He glanced into one room, definitely Joan's room by the perfume bottles on the dresser and the clothing in the closet. There were a few drops of blood there, but there was a larger amount in Sherlock's room. The consulting detective had already been on his way to the meeting, so he had to assume Joan was the one who had been attacked and taken. There was a note from Sherlock on the bed. He read it, then grabbed his cell phone.

Gregson called Bell and told him to get over to the brownstone with three or four deputies as soon as possible. Sherlock hadn't wanted backup, but Gregson was going to see he got it anyway.

He ended the call and went back downstairs. So…what did he know? He tried to imagine Sherlock standing in this same room, looking around at the evidence and deducing the whole story. The detective wasn't on Sherlock's caliber, but he had to give it a try. If Moriarty's people who had Joan got Sherlock too, then he was the only one who could tip the scales in the good guys' favor.

He closed his eyes and thought a moment. Joan here. Alone. From his quick analysis of the blood drops, probably in Sherlock's bed. That thought surprised him for a moment, but then he was back to the evidence. Whoever took her must have been waiting to see Sherlock leave, because they pounced as soon as he was out of sight. The front door had been picked. Joan had been hurt, but not enough blood to warrant a gunshot wound. Most likely the kidnapper or kidnappers surprised her while she was sleeping and then roughed her up a bit.

When he heard the police sirens, he went outside to meet them. New York was a big city and he had no idea where to find Holmes or Joan, but he had to start somewhere.

* * *

Sherlock looked up at the glass and metal structure of the museum. There wasn't a large crowd because it was a few minutes before opening. He glanced at the nearby windows and rooftops. No sign of anyone, but he knew Moriarty's men would be a bit more circumspect than to be easily identifiable. He started to walk around to the front, all the while keeping eyes open for anything not quite right. All he saw was an elderly woman, in her late 70's, feeding the pigeons in the small green space near the museum, along with the generic flow of New Yorkers on the sidewalk outside the museum complex .

At ten, he went inside. A young woman in her 20's, probably an art student by the textbook open on the desk in front of her and the faint stain of paint on her fingers, asked his name and gave him a pass. Sherlock put it on his coat, and began a self-tour of the museum, keeping a careful eye on the scattered patrons around.

He made his way past a display of Frank Lloyd Wright furniture, some generic looking blobs of sculpture and large color block paintings by Malevich. He examined _Black Circle_ which apparently was this Malevich's idea of art. It seemed pretentious; a close up view of a punctuation mark. It was difficult to concentrate on any of them; his mind was fixated on the impending meeting.

He was standing by an exhibit of German Expressionists when a work finally did catch his eye. A version of _The Scream_, rendered in oil pastels was on display. He'd seen it before, of course, but in real life, in person, it was different. The picture was ghastly. The garish colors and horrified expression on the main subject's face were almost too hideous to look at. It reminded Sherlock of too many terrible moments in the past, and he was mesmerized, staring at the blue and bloody orange colors.

"It's wonderfully horrid, isn't it?"

"Artwork is irrelevant." Sherlock said simply. He then turned his head slowly to see the smiling face of Professor Moriarty. His iron control allowed Sherlock to seem at ease, but he was not. Every atom of his body was on alert. He glanced around for Moriarty's henchmen, but saw no one.

"Interesting that you would say that," Moriarty replied. "I would have said you had an artist's soul."

Sherlock regarded him with an expressionless countenance. "And I would have said that you had no soul at all."

Moriarty chuckled, every bit the kindly professor. It was the same expression he'd worn when called to Scotland Yard to be questioned about Olivia's murder. The same expression that he had used to be taken off the list as a suspect. Sherlock tried to wipe it out of mind and focus on now, instead of the painful wounds of the past, but it was nearly impossible.

"Oh, I can't believe you would say such a thing. That hurts. It really does." Moriarty said, pretending to be offended by Sherlock's remark.

"So. What is it you want exactly?" Sherlock asked, regarding Moriarty with a neutral expression. "I do have a schedule."

"Ah yes. 'Nanny Watson' must miss you. So let's get to it." There was a pause and then the older man went on. "As I have said, I am planning to expand operations. We have…stepped on each other's toes in the past, shall we say? It would be unfortunate if that happened again."

"That's too bad. I rather enjoy stepping on toes, especially when it comes to taking down murderers, gun-runners, and thieves." He fixed his attention on Moriarty the way he would on an opponent in chess. It was vital he stay several moves ahead.

"Mr. Holmes. You are incredibly brilliant. So brilliant in fact, that I have admired you for quite some time. It would be a pity for you to end up on the wrong side of a bullet. Rest assured…if you continue to get in my way, I will have to take the regrettable step of killing you."

"If I died in the process of bringing you to your deserved end, I would gladly make that sacrifice." Sherlock narrowed his eyes at Moriarty. "It would be an honor."

Moriarty and Holmes locked gazes for long moments. "What about your 'not a friend?' The sober companion? You don't mind her sacrificed for those principles as well?"

"She has nothing to do with this." Even as Sherlock spoke the words, he knew they were his weakness.

Just then, Moriarty's phone chimed. He glanced at the screen and smiled broadly. "Ah, but yes she does. She has everything to do with this." Moriarty showed Sherlock the picture on his phone. It was Joan. She was sitting on the floor in a nondescript room, hands cuffed to a radiator, duct tape on her mouth. Her feet were bound as well. Her face was bloody, but he couldn't make out where the wound was. Her eyes were open and defiant. Sherlock's mind raced as he realized the danger she was in.

Moriarty glanced at the picture and made a disapproving noise. "My colleague is a little rough around the edges, I believe. I am sorry about that. But you should know Miss Watson has a lot to do with this. She has made you successful at working again and therefore you are a potential problem for me." His ice blue eyes evaluated Holmes. "How long do you think you would have remained clean if not for her influence? I predict you would have been shooting up again within a month. You had quite an expensive habit, as I remember."

Holmes said nothing, so Moriarty continued. "Since this woman is so valuable to you, you need to think about your future actions."

"On the contrary, you should think about your actions." The look in Holmes' eyes was so dark and forbidding that Moriarty stepped back, almost subconsciously. The detective used his tall frame to tower over Moriarty. "If you harm Joan or anyone else of mine, I will take everything from you; your power, your money, your network of criminals. Then, lastly, I **WILL** kill you."

Moriarty remained staring into his eyes, but a malevolent smile crossed his face. "Oh yes. That's it…Get angry. Maybe you're not such a 'good guy' after all, Mr. Holmes. Maybe we're more alike than you would think."

Holmes took a step back, then casually drew his phone from his pocket and, barely glancing at the screen, texted a few words. He replaced the phone and leveled his gaze on Moriarty before he spoke. "I should think that you'll want to release Miss Watson in the next thirteen minutes. That is the exact response time from the nearest police precinct to The Ibis Hotel, where she is located, in an east facing room, probably the third floor. Since it is a small hotel, it won't take long to do a room by room search. I hope for your sake they find Miss Watson alive and well."

Moriarty held his gaze for a scant few seconds, then turned and left, but not before Holmes saw him take his own phone from his pocket and make a call. Sherlock left from another exit and caught a cab; heading toward the hotel where he knew Joan to be.

* * *

Author's note: TBC…. Thanks to all readers for your reviews, and keep them coming! I treasure each one. :)


	11. Chapter 11

Once again, I'm glad everyone's enjoyed this story. Thanks for the comments! There should be one more chapter to go before we're done with this. (And there may be a serious Moriarty arc to come in a sequel—if there's some interest and the muse provides!) :)

* * *

Chapter 11

The throbbing in Joan's head woke her from a fuzzy sleep. In her dream, she'd been searching for Sherlock throughout the brownstone. She could hear him, but she couldn't find him and she knew he was in danger. When the pain in her head drove her to open her eyes, she was still hearing his voice.

"So. What is it you want exactly? I do have a schedule."

"Ah yes. 'Nanny Watson' must miss you. So let's get to it."

Joan blinked, glancing around for Sherlock. She was in what proved to be a hotel room. Her wrists were locked to a radiator with cuffs. Sherlock wasn't in the room, but her captor was. He was listening to a tiny speaker connected to some sort of transmitter. She focused and realized that Sherlock was speaking with Moriarty. The meeting. She remembered the note, the sudden intruder and her attempt to fight him. He'd been vicious, pistol whipping her across the skull with his gun. The wound had bled a lot. She'd tried to get to her room, but hadn't made it far; she'd felt the sting of a hypodermic needle in her shoulder and that had been the last thing she remembered.

Until waking up here. "Smile." The kidnapper took her picture with a cell phone as she glanced up at him, her eyes full of hate. He'd bound her well, hands and feet, and gagged her with some sort of cloth shoved into her mouth and held in place by a piece of duct tape. Her adversary was a tall man with a crew cut and a military manner. She'd tried to fight him off, but he was simply too large and too strong.

The voices being transmitted brought her attention back to the conversation between Sherlock and Moriarty. "Mr. Holmes. You are incredibly brilliant. So brilliant in fact, that I have admired you for quite some time. It would be a pity for you to end up on the wrong side of a bullet. Rest assured…if you continue to get in my way, I will have to take the regrettable step of killing you."

She felt the bitterest hatred turn her stomach at hearing the leering voice. So this was the son-of-a-bitch that had caused Sherlock so much pain. Her body shook with rage, but she could say nothing due to the gag.

"If I died in the process of bringing you to your deserved end, I would gladly make that sacrifice. It would be an honor."

_No, Sherlock. Don't say that! _Her anger melted into terror; the determined note in his voice terrified her. She focused on every word, closing her eyes to concentrate and in her mind, she could almost see the scene.

"What about your 'not a friend?' The sober companion? You don't mind her sacrificed for those principles as well?"

"She has nothing to do with this," She heard Sherlock reply, then there was a pause when she wasn't sure what would happen next. Her eyes met the dark eyes of her kidnapper, and he grinned, his empty eyes and sharp teeth reminding her of a shark.

"How long do you think you would have remained clean if not for her influence? I predict you would have been shooting up again within a month. You had quite an expensive habit, as I remember." She flinched at Moriarty's taunting, knowing it would cut him deeply. "Since this woman is so valuable to you, you need to think about your future actions."

"On the contrary, you should think about your actions. If you harm Joan or anyone else of mine, I will take everything from you; your power, your money, your network of criminals. Then, lastly, I WILL kill you." Joan could hear his determination.

Sherlock's next words made her heart leap, even though she was fighting a wave of dizziness and exhaustion. She could still feel the effects of whatever had been in that syringe. "I should think that you'll want to release Miss Watson in the next thirteen minutes. That is the exact response time from the nearest police precinct to The Ibis Hotel, where she is located, in an east facing room, probably the third floor."

She watched with satisfaction as her kidnapper looked up at her, surprise in his dark eyes. "Goddamn it." He said to himself. She watched as he began to toss things into a black, military style duffel bag. There was the transmitter and speakers, a gun and knife, and several other things she wasn't able to see. Then the captor's phone rang.

"Yes... Yes, I heard. Are you certain? I can take care of her in less than a minute since time may be of the essence." He grinned, shark like again, then looked disappointed. "Yes. I understand."

He ended the call. "Looks like you get a free pass this time." He walked over and grabbed her chin roughly. He turned her eyes up toward his and seemed to be memorizing her face. "Next time, we'll play for keeps."

She shrank back from him, her skin crawling at the feel of his cold gloved hands on her face. She knew he could murder her and never think twice about it. In fact, the more she studied his dark eyes, she thought he would enjoy it. He leaned in and whispered  
"Goodbye, Joan Watson" in her ear. His breath brushed her skin and made her shudder.

Then he was gone. Joan groaned in disgust and sank back against the radiator. She hoped her rescuers would hurry; just in case the kidnapper changed his mind about playing for keeps.

* * *

The New York cabbie got him there in ten minutes, beating Gregson and the police. Sherlock threw some money at the driver and was inside before the man could count it.

The Ibis Hotel was a relic of the 1950's. It had once been a small, exclusive, upscale hotel, but now its faded elegance, while still apparent, was on the wane. The carpet was ancient and faded, but the faint blue and white details in the carpet could still be seen. The only occupants of the lobby were several worn sofas and chairs sporting hideously mismatched patterns. The detective blew right past the front desk attendant, finding the stairs and taking them two at a time.

In less than a minute, he was at the third floor. He knew she would be the third or fourth room down from the view of the mural painted on the Baker Building from the window in the photo. He chose the fourth room and knocked. He heard a soft sound from the room and pulled a paperclip from his pocket. It took him less than fifteen seconds to pick the thirty year old lock and pop the door open.

"Joan—" He was at her side in an instant, freeing her from the gag first. She was pale and looked a bit confused. "Gregson's on his way. Are you alright?" He examined her eyes, then the bloody gash on her head. It was still oozing blood. The side of her face near the wound was a bluish color where she'd been struck.

She nodded, and immediately he began to work on the handcuff lock. "Are you okay? Moriarty…I heard him. A transmitter."

She saw his jaw stiffen, the way it did when he was struggling with something. "I'm fine." The cuffs clicked and her hands were free. She threw her arms around him and he returned the embrace for long moments. Reluctantly he got up, then grabbed a towel from the bathroom and gently applied it to her head. "It's still bleeding." He said simply as he pulled out his phone with his other hand.

He texted Gregson the room number, just as he heard the sirens from outside. Then he pulled her close as they waited for the police.


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

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Author's Note: I've had two deaths in my immediate family in the past few months (father and father –in—law ), so I'm sorry it took me so long to put an ending to this story. I've lost track of responding to reviews during that time as well, but I've read and appreciated each one. Thanks to all my readers! Your reviews were well received at such a rough time.

* * *

"They're going to take her to the hospital for some tests and stitches." Gregson told Sherlock as the ambulance doors closed on Joan.

"No…no…I have to go with her." Sherlock started to go after the EMT's, but the detective stopped him.

"I told her we'd be on our way." Gregson said. "I'll drive you there. Hold on a second." He went to speak with Detective Bell, who was coordinating the retrieval of evidence in the hotel room.

"Ok. Get in." Once they were speeding into traffic, Gregson spoke again. "Now explain to me why the hell you ran off to do this on your own, Holmes."

Sherlock was staring out the window, as if he could will the car to end up at the hospital faster, just with the power of his mind. "There was nothing you could have done. I was moderately sure there would be no danger…to me. Obviously I misjudged." The words came out forced. "I did not…foresee that Joan…would be in danger." The last words were painful to speak; his jaw had to work several times to get all of them out.

"You couldn't have known." Gregson dismissed. "So. Tell me about the meeting."

Sherlock gave him a brief summary. As far as Gregson could tell, there was going to be no way to get this Moriarty guy on a charge. "How did you know where Joan would be?"

"The picture Moriarty showed me. It was his mistake. It was obviously a hotel room. There was a cast iron radiator, which dated the building. I also saw a part of the brightly painted mural on the wall of the Baker Building outside the window. The artist was profiled in the New York Times last month with a picture of his painting. I put those together and came up with the Ibis Hotel—the only hotel of the right age near the Baker Building."

"Damn. You're good." Gregson smiled and shook his head.

"Not good enough." Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he stared angrily out the window.

"Look. There's no way you could have known that this guy would send someone after Joan."

Sherlock didn't reply.

They arrived at the hospital. Gregson stopped the car at the entrance and turned to Sherlock before he got out of the car. "You can't blame yourself. We're going to do the best we can to get this guy."

Holmes gave him a black look, then stepped out of the car without a comment. Gregson sighed and went to park the car.

Her eyes were closed when he stepped in. He studied her without speaking, noticing the swollen look to the side of her face and the pale cast to her skin. He stood stiffly, rocking back and forth on his heels, looking for the right thing to do or say.

He was gazing downwards, looking at the floor and gathering his thoughts when she spoke. "Sherlock."

"Joan." He said simply, walking stiffly over to the bed. He met her eyes and she saw the telltale tightness of stress in his jawline. This kind of stress was not good for him. She knew he blamed himself for the kidnapping.

Joan grabbed his hand in hers and studied it a moment. His strong fingers clasped her hand back tightly. "You know…you're lucky I got kidnapped." She smiled at his surprised look. "Because I would have kicked your ass if you left me out of this thing."

"Well…I guess I was lucky, then." He examined the stitches in her scalp. "Looks painful."

"It's not bad. I'm a tough girl." She replied, sitting up and swinging her legs to dangle off the bed.

He nodded, but still said nothing. She reached up and touched his cheek, turning his gaze towards her and away from his feet. "Sherlock, stop it." She narrowed her eyes at him. "You can't blame yourself. And anyway, the doctors said I'm fine."

"But you might not have been." He said slowly and deliberately, his eyes threatened tears that wouldn't fall. He couldn't help thinking of what could have happened. He faced her, but didn't meet her gaze; he focused his eyes somewhere beyond her.

"Yeah, and you might have gotten killed too. Life is full of risk." Her hand slipped from his cheek to take his grasp. "We both might have gotten killed a hundred times by now…by a hundred different criminals that we've brought to justice. You couldn't have foreseen any of this."

"I should have deduced it." He focused on her, then turned his head toward the nurse who knocked.

"No. You can't deduce everything." Joan replied.

"I can try." He told her.

"Miss Watson, they'll release you if someone's here to take you home." The nurse glanced to Sherlock and then back to her patient.

"Yes, we're ready to go home." She replied. When the nurse had left, she looked back into Sherlock's eyes. "Moriarty will be back, won't he?" She asked softly.

Sherlock nodded. "Yes, I'm afraid so, Watson." He knew now that the safest place for her would be right beside him. He'd allowed his love and fear to cause him to make an error in trying to protect her, but he wouldn't make that error a second time. There were myriad dangers in the world, but he would keep them all at bay. And when the time came, they would defeat Moriarty together. "Ready to go?"

The bright smile she provided him with said it all.

* * *

Author's note: Complete for now. There may be another story arc for this one in the future, however!


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